


How to Be an Adult

by approaching_asymmetry



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 'cause I'm a hopeless theatre person, Actor Marco, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Gift Exchange, Gift Work, IKEA Furniture, Let's see how this goes, M/M, Springles mentioned, Tags Are Hard, dorky boyfriends are dorky, it's my first time posting anything so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/approaching_asymmetry/pseuds/approaching_asymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco attempt to act like grown-ups in their very first apartment. It doesn't exactly go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Be an Adult

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowd00dles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowd00dles/gifts).



"So I'm on dinner, you're on table construction."

"Got it," Jean confirmed. "And whoever finishes first wins."

"I hope _you_ win." Marco nudged Jean's side. "Otherwise we'll be eating our pasta on the floor."

Jean gave him a sardonic look. "Because we've never done _that_ before." They had, in fact, eaten on the floor every day of the last week, a side effect of having just moved into an apartment that was not quite as furnished as they expected. Marco's rehearsal schedule meant they had to wait until the weekend for a free day to go furniture shopping, but they were eager to get a real table, if only to give the sense that their apartment was more put together than the haphazard student housing of the previous year.

“You sure you can do it by yourself?” Marco asked as Jean hauled the box towards the middle of the floor.

Jean scoffed in feigned offense, then raised his chin haughtily. “I am an _adult_ , Marco. I can handle one measly Ikea table. Besides,” he continued, starting to open the packaging, “how hard can it be?" 

Marco turned back towards the countertop, eyebrows raised. If the horror stories were to be believed, it could be pretty damn hard. He said nothing, however, as he gathered the last few ingredients. Jean would find out soon enough.

The trip to Ikea had been exhausting. As they made their way through the labyrinthine store, Jean and Marco realized that there was nothing quite like furniture shopping to make you realize you know nothing about furniture shopping. The sheer number of options was almost overwhelming. To further complicate things, Sasha and Connie had insisted on going with them because Jean and Marco “clearly needed expert advice.” Their "advice" mostly consisted of the pair trying out every chair and sofa the store had to offer, seeing who could mispronounce the furniture labels the worst, and repeatedly suggesting they pick up some Swedish meatballs before they left. The only contribution they actually made to the table hunt had been Connie's. "Make sure you get one of those extendable tables, so you can feed us when we come over!" Jean and Marco had both rolled their eyes as Sasha and Connie high-fived, but ended up following his advice, walking out with "Bjursta" in tow. It had been an adventure, to say the least.

They both set to work, Marco putting water on to boil and Jean setting out screws and fragments of the table frame. For the next few minutes, they worked in comfortable silence punctuated only by the dull sound of chopping tomatoes, the metallic clink of a screwdriver on table legs, and periodic grunts of annoyance from Jean.

Marco began humming a soft melody, a habit of his when he cooked. Jean paused in his battle with the frame to listen. With a fond smile, he watched Marco sway gently to the music. He thought (not for the first time) that Marco sang like an angel, but he resisted the urge to tell him. Experience had taught him that Marco would only clam up, bashful in the face of such sincere praise. Instead, Jean quietly walked up behind Marco and snaked his arms around his middle, beginning to sway along. Eyes closed, he absentmindedly nuzzled Marco's neck. Marco acknowledged Jean's presence with a smile and a gentle tilt of his head. He set down the spoon he had been holding and turned around to face Jean, catching his hands and placing one on his shoulder. Marco put his own hand on Jean's waist and began leading him in a waltz, swirling him around the kitchen to the tune he hummed. As he neared the end of the song, Marco dipped Jean, and for a few moments, all was silent as they gazed tenderly into each other's eyes.

Jean grinned suddenly, breaking the spell. "Wow, are we sappy as hell or what?"

"Way to ruin a mood, love." Marco rolled his eyes, but he smiled as he gave Jean a playful peck on the lips. He tilted him back upright and his expression turned thoughtful. "Hey." His voice dropped to a seductive purr before he bit his lip and leaned in close. Jean closed his eyes and shivered in anticipation as Marco's breath brushed past his ear.

"Shouldn't you be assembling our table?"

Jean raised an eyebrow and glanced at Marco out of the corner of his eye. Not quite as sexy as he had been expecting, true, but he couldn't deny the little bubbles of happiness he felt at the way Marco had said "our table." It seemed so _domestic_ , so _normal_. He could definitely get used to this feeling.

With a lopsided smile and a mock salute, Jean returned to his work on the table. For several minutes, everything went well, barring a small menagerie of frustrated curses and the occasional grumble of "Where the hell does this go?" Marco had gone back to his work too, and he was just putting in the spaghetti when—

_CRASH._

"GODFUCKING _DAMMIT_ FUCKING _HELL_!" Marco jumped in alarm to see Jean clutching his hand to his chest. He furrowed his brows in concern. "Are you hurt?"

Jean met him with a bewildered glance. "What do you think I yelled for? My own entertainment?"

"Good point—do you need a band-aid?" he asked, already poised to run for the first-aid kit he'd insisted on having in the apartment.

Jean shook his head, still holding his hand. "I'll be okay, it didn't break the skin. Just pinched like a motherfu—Hey! Quit laughing!" he called out in annoyance.

Marco tried to stifle his laughter with his hand, his attention grabbed by the Swedish monstrosity before him. "Sorry, sorry, it's just... What did you do to that poor table?" He let out a giggle. "I'm pretty sure all the legs are supposed to point _down_ ," he said.

"It's gotta get worse before it gets better, okay?" Jean defended sheepishly.

Marco laughed. "Did you even look at the instructions?"

"I did, believe it or not. I mean, I didn't at first, but then I got stuck and..." he trailed off in a mumble. "Anyways, the guide didn't help! There are no words on the pictures, and when there are, they're in like three hundred different languages! I can't find English!" The exasperation was clear in his voice. "And don't just stand there with that smug look on your face!" Jean grabbed Marco's hand and pulled him down to the floor where he sat. Marco flopped down so he was lying on his back looking up at the trainwreck of a table.

He smiled wickedly. "How hard can it be?" he said, mimicking Jean's words from earlier.

"I've never done this before, gimme a break!" Jean lay down on the floor beside Marco. "We should have called Armin," he grumbled. "He probably could have figured it out by now."

Marco rolled over to face Jean. "It's an adventure. It's part of being an adult," he said lightly.

"Can I go back to being a kid?"

Marco laughed and snuggled closer to Jean. "If only."

They lay there for a few peaceful moments, Marco tracing lazy circles on Jean's chest.  
After a short while, Jean's eyes narrowed. “Hey, Marco?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you smell…something burning?”

Marco furrowed his brow for a moment, and then his eyes widened in disbelief. “ _No_ ,” he said as he leapt up from the floor and raced towards the kitchen. “Please say that isn’t what I thi— _shit_. _ShitshitshitshitshitSHIT_ —” Jean took Marco’s yelped string of curses as his cue to run over and help. He got to the kitchen just in time to see a panicked Marco flinging a damp rag over the fire that had sprung up.

Over what was supposed to have been their dinner.

The pots still hissed with steam as they stood back and surveyed the wreckage. Marco had maybe thrown the dishrag _slightly_ harder than necessary. Noodles littered the stovetop, some soggy, some blackened to a crisp. Droplets of sauce had been flung onto the counter, and the thick smell permeating the air could only be described as _charred_.

Jean gave a low whistle. "I’m almost impressed.”

Jean’s words fell on deaf ears, as Marco stood frozen, incredulous. “I can’t believe I just burned pasta." He turned to Jean, eyes wide. "I can’t believe you just made me burn _pasta_.” He became suddenly grave, and his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “This is it. I’m gonna be disowned.”

Jean raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh come on, like you’ll be disowned for messing up one litt—“

“Have you _met_ my family, Jean?” Marco took on an urgent tone. There was no trace of joking in his eyes. “Italians, they…They don’t forgive things like this. It may seem small, but...” His bottom lip started to quiver slightly, and Jean's face dropped as he began to panic.

“Wait, you're serious? You can get kicked out of the family for _this_? This is—this is _nothing_ , it was my fault anyway! How can they—" He was interrupted by a soft chuckle as Marco's grim facade cracked.

"You're kidding me," Jean deadpanned.

"No, Jean, not at all, this is—pfft!—this is _serious_!" Marco fought to maintain his solemn expression, but the upturned corners of his lips ruined the effect. Finally Marco couldn't take it anymore and burst into laughter. “Oh my god, you really believed me for a second! You should have seen your _face_!"

"Yeah, yeah, very funny. It's not my fault you're a genius actor. It's not even fair." He turned away from Marco with an embarrassed pout.

"You're blushing!" Marco said gleefully, catching Jean's hand and pulling him into his arms.

"No I'm not," Jean retorted, burying his face in Marco's sweater. Marco smiled knowingly.

"But really, don't tell my mom. She'd never let me live it down."

"I won't tell your mom about this," Jean said, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "But I make no promises about your little sisters."

Marco gasped. "That's even worse!"

"I guess we both have embarrassing blackmail on each other now," Jean said.

"Like we didn't already?" Marco raised a teasing eyebrow. "Do you remember the first time we had sex—"

"You promised we would never speak of that again." Jean's betrayed look was framed by ears that had begun to turn cherry red.

Marco squeezed him closer. "But you were so _adorable_!"

Jean made a strangled noise and hid his face again.

"So, on a more serious note: I was thinking maybe we should just, um...try this again later. This whole fancy dinner thing."

Jean peeked curiously at Marco, then at the apartment. The kitchen was a mess, the table a disaster. He nodded in agreement. "I don't think we can afford any more casualties. We pretty much fucked up that whole ‘mature, well-adjusted adult’ thing,” he said matter-of-factly.

"You think?" Marco asked sarcastically.

"How about we just—"

"Order Chinese delivery and eat on the floor?"

Jean smiled. "You read my mind. We can watch a movie too!"

Marco nodded his assent. Jean began to arrange the pillows and blankets from their mattress into a sort of nest as Marco called in their usual order.

"Let's watch _Anastasia_ ," Jean called out as soon as Marco had hung up.

"Good idea! I was just humming that song earlier—that music box song."

"I know, that's why I suggested it," Jean said, so softly he wasn't sure if Marco heard.

They spent the time before their food arrived cleaning the kitchen because as much as they wanted to ignore it, the mess would be harder to clean the longer they waited. It was the responsible thing to do, they reminded themselves. The adult thing to do. The table was a different beast entirely; they left that one for the morning. Eventually the food arrived, and the two settled on their pillows, talking over the opening credits playing on Jean's laptop.

"So this is independence." Marco mused, picking up a clump of rice with his chopsticks. "Finally get an apartment of your own and watch a bunch of children's movies."

"Hey now, _Anastasia_ has some pretty dark subject matter. Murder, a guy selling his soul—"

"There's a talking bat, Jean."

Jean tilted his head in concession. "Touché."

Throughout the movie, they sang along to all the songs, quoted their favorite lines—both agreed that Jean did by far the best "Grandma, it's me... _Anastasia"_   impression—and kept an ongoing commentary. 

"You know, I used to have a huge crush on Anastasia when I was a kid," Jean mused as the character in question waltzed across the screen.

Marco grinned. "Really? I had a crush on Dimitri."

Jean gave him an amused glance. "Figures."

Near the end of the movie, Marco realized that Jean hadn't said anything in a while. He looked over, and sure enough, Jean was asleep, half buried in pillows. When the end credits rolled, Marco tried to wake him. "Jean?" he whispered, lightly tracing his thumb over the sleeping man's cheek. "Jean, love, you have to wake up. We have to get ready for bed." Marco placed a gentle kiss on his nose, and Jean woke with a soft, confused "Huh?"

Tired though he was, Jean began to wake up a little as he followed Marco to the bathroom, where they brushed their teeth with no small amount of playful hip bumping. As they changed into pajamas, Jean yawned, and Marco felt a wave of tiredness come over him. Jean turned out the lights, leaving only the faint golden glow of the street lamp outside their window. They shuffled their way over to the mattress, still littered with pillows, and burrowed into the pile of blankets.

This time it was Marco who fell asleep first, curled against Jean's chest. Jean sleepily stroked his soft dark hair, smiling at the memory of the day's exploits. He recognized that they were at a turning point in their lives, that odd in-between place where youth and adulthood met, taking on grown-up responsibilities while still clinging to carefree childhood memories. It was a place full of risks, a place where, as they'd already proven, failure _was_ an option. But as he gazed at Marco's peaceful face in the dim light, he felt as if there was no place he'd rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I was super excited to write for you because I love your art! I had trouble deciding which of the prompts to write on because they both gave me really good ideas. (Honestly, I would have tried to write both of them, but EXAMS.) 
> 
> They are probably (read: definitely) watching Anastasia because I am quite frankly in love with your Anastasia au. Just so you know.
> 
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
